by John Coyne
"Have you checked to see if the others are listed?" Derek asked. "You mean the others from the graveyard?" "Yes. I wonder how long each of them worked for Fergus." He set the ledgers down on the conference table and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Pulling over a pad, he said, "Okay, let's go over your list. Start with Maeve Donnellan." Obediently Barbara produced the list she'd compiled on Steepletop and consulted it. She was glad that Derek now seemed much more interested. "Maeve Donnellan...let's see.... Here it is. She died in 1939." Using the dates of death to establish which ledger they should consult, they were finished in less than fifteen minutes. Then Derek listed the information on a large white poster pad and they both stood back, away from the standing pad, and studied the findings. "All women," Barbara said at once.
Length of Date of Names Employment Death Age
Peggy Connolly eight months 1934 18 Maeve Donnellan six months 1939 19 Nuala O'Neill seven months 1940 19 Carmel Burke eleven months 1931 19 Anne Kilferick four months 1937 20 Eileen Manning three months 1936 18 Peggy Condon twelve months 1935 16 Maura Ward fourteen months 1938 19 Maureen Leahy two months 1932 17 Monica Healion five months 1933 16
"And all but one of them worked here less than one year." He indicated the length of employment. "Every year from 1931 to '40." "This doesn't make much sense. How could so many young girls die like that?" "It might have been tuberculosis. TB was still fairly common at the time, and these girls were straight from the bogs of western Ireland." "I can't believe it. Ten young girls dying one after another within one decade. It isn't natural. What did they make of it in Flat Rock? There must have been some notoriety." "Ballycastle was a closed corporation when Fergus was alive. There are plenty of stories of how the local people were kept away from here. Fergus was always afraid for his life, I'm told, so he employed a private army of bodyguards to patrol the place. And during the war years, just before he died, he refused to see anybody." "What about all those lavish Great Gatsby parties?" "They were in the '20s and '30s, and his guests certainly weren't from Flat Rock. Fergus chartered special trains to bring people up from New York. But after the war began even those parties ceased." "Yes, you're right." Barbara nodded. "So no one really knows what life was like at Ballycastle. Except, of course, for Conor."
Eleven
The boys' locker room was jammed with football players when Scott came downstairs after school. Already the team had spontaneously begun to chant, "Kill 'em! Kill 'em! Kill 'em!" as they dressed for the afternoon game. Scott ignored the shouting as he pushed his way along the aisle to reach his locker. He did not want to play ball, especially not on the home field, not with everyone from school in the stands. Still, he suited up, put on his shoulder pads, pulled on his Flat Rock jersey, doing it slowly as the noise reached a crescendo around him. He kept his face to the open locker, avoiding the rest of the team, realizing again how lonely he was at Flat Rock, among all these strangers. It made him feel sick. "Hey, Gardiner!" Nick Borgus smacked him hard on the shoulder pads with the thick Hobgoblin manuals. "Your books," he said, shoving them into Scott's hands. The senior was already dressed and walking off toward the football field. Scott nodded, but did not say thanks. The two manuals were a surprise. He hadn't expected to see them again, and he handled them carefully, like a prize. Only after Nick had walked by did Scott notice that something was odd about the books. The pages weren't lying right. Flipping one of the manuals open, he saw the reason-all the color illustrations had been torn out. "Hey!" Scott slammed down the aisle after Borgus, pushing every one out of his way. "What did you do that for?" he demanded, grabbing the linebacker's jersey. Borgus swung away, tore himself free. "Hey, man, get your fuckin' hands off me." "What did you do to my manuals?" Scott shouted, too angry to be afraid. "Nothing. I didn't do nothing to your books." "Like hell you didn't. You cut them to pieces. Every color picture has been cut out-and that's more than half of each book." "Ah, I was just showing them around in study hall so I ripped a few out. I mean, it's no big deal. They're only pictures, for chrissake." "Only pictures?" Suddenly Scott was quiet, his voice low but fiercely intense. "They're the best thing about the books. You can't buy Hobgoblin manuals in this town, Borgus. I'm going to have to wait till we go to New York or Boston. And even when I get them, they're going to be expensive. I just want you to know, Borgus, because you're paying." "Oh, shit, forget it." Borgus waved at him in disgust and turned away to leave. "It's a silly game, asshole." Scott grabbed him from behind and shoved Nick into the nearest locker. The chanting had stopped and the crowd of students pushed back, expecting a fight. "How would you like it if I ripped your fuckin' jersey, Borgus?" "Hey, man, get out of my face." He pushed at Scott. "It's a silly game. It's a silly game," Scott chanted, using his arm to brace Nick against the lockers. "Hey, Nick, how would you like it if I ripped the numbers off your jersey? Maybe I could show them around the study hall." "This is my football uniform," Borgus answered, not sure what Scott was getting at. "Sure, I know, but who cares?" Scott said sarcastically. "I mean, everybody knows that football is a really silly game." Nick shoved him then, bounced Scott off the row of lockers opposite them. "I told you to get your face away from me," he yelled, angry now that he understood. "This is football, Gardiner, not some kids' game full of fairies. You keep away from me, understand?" He was pointing his finger at Scott, ordering him to listen. "If you give me any more shit, I'll cream your ass, do you hear?" Scott went for him then, lunging toward Borgus, but the senior ducked, then swung his padded shoulder into Scott's middle, hitting him hard. The blow doubled Scott over and he fell across the bench as if he'd been totaled deep in the backfield. A cheer went up from the football players, and again the chant began. "Kill 'em! Kill 'em!" they shouted in unison as they followed Borgus out onto the field. Scott pulled himself off the floor. He could hear the kids cheering in the stands and he said quietly in the empty locker room, "It's only a game, Borgus. It's only a silly game."
Back in her own office, Barbara buzzed her secretary and asked if she had seen Conor. She hadn't, not all morning or during lunch. "Call around Ballycastle, will you, and see if you can find him," Barbara said. "I'll be downstairs finishing up the storage inventory. If he turns up, send him down there. Before the day is over I want to pressure him again about those missing files." Taking her keys to the cellar she left her office and headed for the stairs. In the late afternoon the main floor of the castle was always crowded. Tourists moved through all the rooms, looking and chattering, the sound of their voices bringing the huge building back to life. The afternoons, Barbara had come to realize, were the only times when she felt comfortable in the mansion. The presence of others, even strangers, relaxed her, made her feel secure. The castle needed crowds of people, she thought. It was no wonder Fergus had held so many parties: to keep back the gloom of the endless rooms, the long dark corridors, the sounds of doors being opened and closed somewhere deep in Ballycastle. Sidestepping one last tourist, Barbara reached the heavy oak door that led below and heaved it open, struggling for a second with the weight. Stepping onto the landing beyond, she let the door swing to and flipped on the fluorescent lights. Then she began her descent. Of all the castle's rooms, the cellars were the most ominous. In their damp, dark caverns she felt the secrets of the castle lying in wait for her. The darkness around her was deep, and the lights overhead did little more than cast her shadow gigantically against the cold white stone walls. She had not been particularly nervous earlier in the afternoon, before she'd discovered the ledgers. But now, after her brush with Fergus and the mysterious deaths of his house servants, she felt much more uneasy. The cellars were like catacombs in which every sound she made came back to her, magnified one hundredfold. Still she kept walking, plunging deeper into the depths of the building. The superintendent's furniture was stored under the south wing, at the far end of Ballycastle, and she forced herself to continue. She would not let her imagination make her leave. When she reached the storage area itself she felt better. The task at hand began to occupy her mind, an
d she remembered thinking earlier that the light way back here was insufficient. There was no track lighting, only a single naked bulb hanging from the low ceiling, and the furniture had been stacked directly below the light, almost swallowing it up. Her first job, then, was to move the furniture over toward the walls so she could get a look at what she was uncovering. The heavy work was distracting and she kept at it, forcing herself to concentrate, to see what remnants of Fergus she could find in that dark and chilly room.
Scott was the last player to reach the field, where the team was already circled around Tagariello. Scott glanced up and saw Valerie high in the stands. She had been watching, waiting for him, and when he looked up toward her she smiled and waved. He looked away quickly, as if he hadn't seen her, and rushed into the crowd of players. He would not be asked to play, Scott knew. It had been almost a week since he last practiced and he didn't even know all the plays, so when the game started he went to the end of the bench, sitting as far as possible from Borgus and the first string players. He was alone there, his face hidden behind his helmet. He didn't look around to see if Valerie was watching him. He knew she was. She had been waiting for him after last period, waiting to wish him good luck. "They won't put me in," he had informed her as he put his books away in his locker. "They might. You're not that bad." "How do you know?" She shrugged. "I saw you a couple of times at practice. I mean, you're as good as that halfback, Marty Burns. I saw Burns-he's all butterfingers. You're better than him. At least I think so." She said that with certainty, and then she grinned. For a second Scott sat on the bench and daydreamed of playing, of racing down the field, of catching the ball in the open field. He could imagine Valerie on her feet, urging him on. He was flying, sidestepping tacklers, stiff-arming the defensive backs, running effortlessly. Then Flat Rock kicked off and all around him the team stood, cheering. Scott stood with the other players, then glanced around to the bleachers. Valerie was still watching him, and she raised a clenched fist in encouragement. "Hey, Gardiner, are you ready?" Nick Borgus yelled down the length of the football bench. "We're going to need you, preppie. Keep that helmet ready." He was laughing, nudging the others. Scott looked away, stared out at the game.
After an hour of working, Barbara glanced down at the list of furnishings she had compiled.
1 Maple bedroom set: bedstand, wardrobe, dressing case, 2 chairs ( Victorian ) 1 Box spring for bedstead (Victorian) 1 Hair mattress for bedstead (Victorian) 1 Hair bolster 1 Feather pillow 1 Square walnut table (Victorian Gothic) 1 Side lounge, covered with figured blue reps 1 Lot of rugs, Smyrna and Persian a Chairs covered with blue striped figured reps 1 Rattan rocker 1 Wooton patent desk
At the bottom of the page, Barbara jotted down several notes of her general impressions. "It is curious that subjected to storage were several fine examples of English Gothic-an octagon table, for example, by A. W. Pugin, as well as the wheel back chairs for the former reception room. While the additional furniture reflects a `worldly' taste (the Wooton desk, etc.) the house was mainly filled with Victorian Gothic furniture. Few American pieces can be located either in the main castle or among the other small houses on the estate." Barbara paused and looked over the vast collection of beautiful antiques. It was true, she thought. Fergus had lived nearly all his life in America, but had never been part of the country. He surrounded himself with Irish servants, European furniture, and foreign guests. He was barely touched by America, yet he wasn't Irish or European either. In Ballycastle Fergus had deliberately created a kingdom in which the only distinct personality was his own. She closed her notebook, pulled the cord on the overhead light and left the darkened storeroom, heading for the lighted hallway. She had reached the storeroom door when those lights too went out, leaving her corner of the cellar entirely dark. She reached out and felt along the wall until she found the switch. A string of fluorescent lights ran the length of the hallway, and she flipped them on. They blinked on slowly and in the bluish glow Barbara saw Conor coming toward her. Then the lights went out again.
"Hey, coach." Scott tagged after Tagariello as he stomped up and down the long sidelines. "Let me play. I'm faster than Burns." Tagariello didn't even turn his head. "What are you talking about, Gardiner? Get out of here, will ya?" He pushed by Scott and paced off several yards, following the game's action. "We're already winning, Coach, by one touchdown. I mean, we can't lose. Let me go in for one series of plays." Tagariello stopped and glanced back at the tall student. He liked it when the kids were eager, anxious to get into the game. Perhaps he'd been wrong about Gardiner. "Okay," he grunted. "On the next down take Burns's place. Seventy-two-flat, got it?" "What's seventy-two-flat?" "Jesus H. Christ. And you want to play!" Tagariello stomped back toward him and rapidly diagrammed the pass play. "Go down five yards, turn out, then Hanlon will hit you with the fly. Got it?" Scott nodded as he pulled on his helmet. "Then get your ass out there!" Tagariello slapped him across the back. Scott ran back along the sideline to where the defensive team was standing, and found Borgus in a cluster of players. "It's only a silly game, Borgus," he shouted, then ran onto the field and into the huddle.
Oh, God, Valerie thought, seeing Scott appear on the field. Now she was frightened for him. Something would happen, she knew; some way or other he would make a fool of himself. She should never have encouraged him to play, especially with the seniors. He would only get hurt. She jumped to her feet. It was cold at the top of the bleachers. The late October wind blew across the open fields and she kept tossing her head to keep her long hair out of her face. Her eyes never left Scott. She saw him spin out of the huddle and take Burns's place at halfback, watched as he set up for the play. They wouldn't throw to him, she thought. He didn't know the plays. She held her breath. At the snap Scott dug his feet into the hard dirt, sprinted ahead two yards, let the quarterback fake to him and then he spun off, running parallel to the line toward the wide side of the field. Valerie watched the pass float into the cloudy sky, saw it ride the wave of the wind. It hung as if motionless and Scott easily picked it off. She jumped up again, cheering with the others, as he spun in the air like a basketball player, then cradled the ball and drew it safely into his arms. "Oh, no, Scott!" she shouted. "Stop! Stop!" Everyone shouted. She saw the quarterback running after him, yelling, waving his arms, trying to catch him. But no one could. He was faster than anyone. His long legs tore down the sidelines. The other team had begun to cheer, to run after him, seeing, as everyone else did, that Scott was scoring a touchdown for the wrong team.
"Oh, Christ." Barbara worked the switch again, flipped it several times, but the lights kept blinking off. "Dammit, Conor, what's wrong?" "Oh, these are old lights, ma'am. I'll have to be getting to them soon," he said, approaching through the dark. Barbara tried again, apprehensive now at being with the old man in the dark cellar. The fluorescent lights came on again. "Thank God," she sighed. "They told me I could find you down here, ma'am." He held out a set of green folders. "The files, ma'am." He smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "Thank you, Conor." Hiding her surprise at his sudden cooperation, she took the files and moved around him, starting toward the basement door. Again the lights gave out. "Not again! Conor, you'll have to see to these lights right away. I can't work down here in the dark." She kept walking, reached the wooden stairs and climbed them quickly. At the top she found the switch and snapped it back and forth. The lights blinked on again. "There! This one works, Conor," she said, turning around, looking back into the basement. The old man was gone. His disappearance had been soundless and swift, as it had been the day she'd encountered him with the dagger, and it frightened her all over again, the way he could suddenly disappear from sight inside the castle. It wasn't right. Then the lights blinked off again as if on cue. Barbara pushed open the heavy oak door and rushed into the sunlight and the friendly crowd of tourists.
"Scott! Don't drive so fast!" Valerie ordered. She sat curled up in the right front seat of the MGB, her legs braced against the padded leather dashboard, Scott's school books and
her own piled in her lap. He was speeding up the parkway, had been speeding since they raced out of the high school parking lot. "No one asked you to come," he answered, shifting down and changing lanes, passing three cars before cutting back to the right. They were traveling at eighty miles an hour. Valerie kept checking the speedometer. "I missed the bus." "That's not my fault." "I missed the bus because I wanted to talk to you after the game, and you took forever to come out of the locker room." "Why?" "Why what?" she yelled. He sped by another car, passing it on a hill, then cut back into the right lane, just missing a car coming against him. "Scott," she screamed, "you're crazy!" Now she was scared he would kill them both. "If you're going to commit suicide, then let me out." He slowed slightly, bringing the car under control. "Why did you want to talk to me?" he asked. "I don't know because I knew you'd be upset about that touchdown." "Upset-hunh! I'm not upset." He glanced at her, grinning. She managed to turn sideways in the seat to look at him. "You weren't? Why not?" "I ran the wrong way on purpose." "But we lost the game!" "So what? It's just a goddamn silly game." He grinned happily as he raced the car. "Oh, shit, Scott. They're going to get you. They're going to kill you. I mean, what did you do a stupid thing like that for?" She was near tears. "Because of Borgus. Because of what he did to my Hobgoblin books." He told her to open up the manuals, showed her how the pictures had been cut out. "Borgus said it was only a silly kid's game." Scott shrugged. "Well, football is only a kid's game too, and it doesn't matter who wins." Ahead of them were the south gates of Ballycastle and Scott shifted gears, slowed down. "But you're only hurting yourself, Scott. I mean, all the kids are mad because we lost." "I don't give a shit." "That's your problem, you don't give a shit about anything." "Goddamn you, Dunn, get off me." He hit the brake, skidding the small car on the gravel. "Did I ask you to hang around my locker? Why don't you go off with your friends if you think I'm such a shithead?" "Maybe I will." "Then get out of my car." "No." "Dunn, I'm going to beat the shit out of you." "Is that going to make you feel better, picking on girls?" She was crying, searching through her bag for a Kleenex to wipe her eyes. Scott shifted into first and pulled the car back onto the road. "You want to go home? I'll drive you if you want me to." "No, I want to go see my sister. She'll take me home after work." "Well, you can come by the house and stay there until she's ready to leave. Unless you think I'm too much of a shithead." He spun through the open gate and speeded up. At this corner of the estate the drive crossed open fields, bare and brown in the late fall. Higher up was the tree line, the stand of trees that blocked the view of the mansion from that side of the road. He liked to race the car on this stretch. It was a rollercoaster of hills and the MGB flew over the slight rises, turned abruptly into the tight corners. He would race for the woods, the darkness. He always felt like Brian Boru, charging back to the king's castle, riding his stallion across the Irish hillside. At the woods he slowed and let the car coast. That was another game of his, to see how far the MGB would travel without power. He was always making up little games like that, ways of entertaining himself. It was because he didn't have friends, he knew, because he was an only child. He had read an article in one of his mother's magazines about only children, how they were more creative, more imaginative than other kids. He took a secret pride in that; it made him feel unusual and special. "What's the matter with the car?" Valerie asked. "Nothing. I'm seeing how far I can go without gas." "Boys," Valerie sighed. "I'm not hurting anything. I'm just playing a game, that's all." "I know. But you're just like all boys. Always playing some silly game." "I'm not like all boys!" he snapped, glaring at her. "All right, you're not." Valerie backed off at once to appease him. She had come to learn his moods and knew when he was really angry. "I'm not like those creeps at Flat Rock." "Well, some of the kids aren't so bad," she said, defending her own. "Those assholes." "Come on, Scott. That's not fair. Do you think I'm an asshole, too?" She leaned forward to catch his eye and then she saw the figure back in the woods. It was running, trying to keep up with the slow moving car. At first she thought it might be a deer. The woods were thick with them below the mansion, and they were hard to spot, dappled as they were to blend in with the leaves. But then she caught a glimpse of the figure standing upright, peering at them. "Scott, stop the car! Look!" She pointed through the small window. Scott turned and looked left out the window. "Where?" he asked, seeing nothing. "There! There!" she shouted, striking the air, pointing, following the creature. "Oh, God, what is it? Oh, Scott, let's get out of here. Start the car, please!" She grabbed his arm, digging in her nails. "Quit it, Val! Where? What do you see?" He kept scanning the thick wood beside the drive, watching for the animal. Then he saw it move. It was closer than he'd expected, less than twenty yards from the car, and hidden partially by the trees and thick foliage, but he saw the small head covered with yellow hair. It raised its arm and brushed back a branch, moved closer to the road, coming at them. "Scott, please, hurry." It was a Black Annis. The old hag who devoured lambs and young children. "Scott! Hurry." Valerie was beating his shoulder. "It'll kill us. It will kill us." Scott lowered the window. He was frightened, too, but he wouldn't leave. He wanted to see the Annis. It was quiet in the woods. Valerie's fear had caught in her throat. She was now too petrified to scream. The Black Annis kept coming forward, brushing back branches. Scott could hear the rustle of leaves as the heavy animal tramped through the trees. It stopped once again, closer now, and Scott caught its scent. It smelled like rotten eggs, like their sulfur experiment in the chemistry lab. "Scott, please," Valerie whispered. He kept watching the creature, but reached forward to start the car. Still he did not drive away. The Black Annis was watching them. It raised its head, stretching to see through a cluster of bright yellow and orange leaves. Then it disappeared from sight. He could hear it retreating, stamping on the bed of leaves, disappearing into the woods.
